


Runaway Baby

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek's pack is full of idiots, I am not exactly sure what this is, M/M, Stiles Saves The Day, Stiles lost Derek, or actually Derek saves him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 13:09:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not some huge, Becky-Rosen type crush where Stiles is suddenly writing Derek’s name on his school notebooks, or hiring superior supernatural beings to make him love potions or whatever. It’s <i>manageable</i>. Or the one where Stiles hasn't seen Derek in three weeks and is kind of freaking out about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Runaway Baby

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for irememberthesun on Tumblr, who prompted me this like two weeks ago wanting h/c and she instead got something much different.
> 
> Thank you to Rosie and Amanda for looking over this for me and for telling me that it doesn't completely suck.

Stiles lost Derek.  
  
Okay, maybe not _literally_ , because it's not like Derek was ever really his to begin with, but it's been three weeks since Stiles has even heard a growl, or a increasingly worrisome death threat–not that he misses those, but Stiles is becoming suspicious that it might be the only way that Derek knows to show he _cares_ –from the guy, and because he's kind of Scott's Alpha now, that’s incredibly unusual behavior. Derek's been more tolerable lately, or had been, because Stiles can't fucking _find_ him, so that should’ve tipped him off.  
  
Over the past few weeks Derek has completely deviated from sour wolf to grumpy puppy, and now he’s–well, Stiles would classify him as happy. Derek’s never been anything but annoyed or seething, or the rare times when he’s just indifferent to everything, but lately it’s almost like he’s been content.   
  
Stiles hasn’t noticed this until now.  
  
This probably makes him a horrible person.  
  
But in his defense he has been too busy celebrating how Derek suddenly isn’t cowering around in his room anymore, looking like he wants nothing more than to eat Stiles’ face, and he may have missed some important details. Like how Derek has made himself scarce these past few weeks, or how Scott hasn’t said a peep and isn’t shooting looks in Stiles’ direction that equate to ‘why do you smell like Derek and how come you don’t look not happy about it’.  
  
Stiles may also be harboring a crush on the guy.   
  
It’s not some huge, Becky-Rosen type crush where Stiles is suddenly writing Derek’s name on his school notebooks, or hiring superior supernatural beings to make him love potions or whatever. It’s _manageable_. It’s not like it’s noticeable or anything–maybe only to Scott and Jackson, and most definitely Derek, but everyone else who doesn’t have that stupid, ultra, ‘I’m better than mere mortals’ werewolf sense wouldn’t even realize it.  
  
So, that being said, Stiles may be freaking out right now.  
  
The first thing he does (it’s admittedly stupid, but he’s not exactly known for his intelligence when he’s freaking out) is call Scott.  
  
“Dude,” Stiles says, before Scott can even get a word in. He’s probably with Allison, either going on one of their incredibly gay and emasculating shopping trips or walking through the park, or maybe Allison is finally giving him what she’s been holding out for–not that he blames her, having sex with a werewolf is both intimidating and dangerous; can you _imagine_ the size of their cocks? And yeah, okay, gross, he totally doesn’t want to think about his best friend’s dick. Stiles would like one ‘memory slate wiped crystal clean’, please and thank you.  
  
“Have you seen Derek?”  
  
Scott huffs out a laugh. “What? No ‘Hey Scott, it’s been a while’ or something?”  
  
Stiles makes a face at the phone, and realizes belatedly that Scott can’t even see him. “I saw you yesterday, man, and we played like seven hours of halo, in which I beat your ass in, so shut up and tell me where Derek is.”  
  
Scott makes this hunted noise in his throat, like his best friend not checking on him is suddenly offensive. “Thanks for the pleasantries, Stiles.”  
  
Stiles sighs. “You’re avoiding the question.”  
  
“No,” Scott disagrees, and Stiles doesn’t need their super weird lying detection powers to know that Scott isn’t telling the truth. “I simply want to know how my best friend is.”  
  
“Why aren’t you answering me?” Stiles asks, deflecting, again.  
  
Scott says nothing.  
  
“You don’t know where he is either,” Stiles says, because _holy shit_ , it suddenly all makes sense now.  
  
“No,” Scott says, defeated. “Jackson, Lydia and I have been searching all over for him. We don’t know where he is and we’re starting to get worried.”  
  
“Starting?” Stiles yelps, “How long has he been gone for?”  
  
Stiles can practically hear Scott shrugging. “I don’t know, like a week.”  
  
“And you didn’t tell me because?” Stiles asks, voice progressively inching toward ‘alarmed and freaking out estranged wife’ rather than ‘interested and somewhat worried human packmate’.  
  
“Stiles,” Scott warns. “Don’t do anything stupid.”  
  
“I don’t do stupid things,” Stiles says, “stupid things do me.” And it doesn’t make sense, not really, but he’s sort of about to die of anxiety and something that’s suspiciously starting to sound like _straight out panic_ , so he doesn’t really think anyone can blame him. Especially not Scott, who is too oblivious to probably even recognize it.  
  
“I’m being serious, Stiles,” Scott says, using his ‘serious’ voice, which just sounds like he’s constipated, but of course Stiles doesn’t tell him that. Scott’s anger is nowhere near Derek’s level–Stiles is starting to think it’s impossible to get to Derek’s level of anger, because the man always looks like he’s embracing his inner serial killer, or angry-convict-out-for-blood–but he can get feisty when provoked and the last thing Stiles needs is an angry werewolf on top of a missing one–figuratively, of course.   
  
Stiles doesn’t say anything for a while, too caught up in his own thoughts, so Scott adds, “when Derek comes back and finds out you did something stupid at his expense he’ll probably kill you if you’re not already dead.”  
  
Stiles thinks for a moment, and replies, “I can live with that.”  
  
“ _Stiles_.”  
  
“YOLO,” is all Stiles says before he hangs up, which has become his signature phrase before he inevitably does something dumb and almost successfully kills himself.  
  
*  
  
Stiles does something stupid.  
  
He decides to go out to Derek’s place, because he’s tired of waiting and he thinks if he has to wait any longer he will inescapably die of nerves and terror and every other bad adjective that’s associated with pain and feelings. Stiles doesn’t really know how to deal with feelings, has never really known how to deal with them, even before his mother died and left him with little to choose from. He’s always found them foreign and somewhat disorienting, and he tries to push everything away until he can’t anymore.   
  
It’s pretty awesome.  
  
Stiles is not one for dramatic irony, so he drags his ass over there despite the clenching in his gut, which usually leads to some not-so-nice things. He ignores it, though, because the thought that Derek could seriously be in trouble–and by seriously Stiles means ‘close-to-if-not-already-dead’ and that particular thought doesn’t really sit well with him–makes this embarrassing feeling clench his chest, one that he doesn’t want to look too closely at.  
  
So, he goes over to his house, finds _nothing_ , and, because the world laughs at his demise–or just laughs at him in general–he ends up tripping over a root on the way back to his Jeep, falling flat on his face. That’s when things go to hell, because yeah, legs definitely aren’t meant to bend that way, especially when you’re a human without healing powers.   
  
Stiles is pretty sure he twists his knee, which makes it harder than it would’ve already been to escape the wolf that is literally _staring_ at him with an intensity that puts Derek’s to shame. And it’s an actual wolf, with fur and quite terrifying canines. He’s massive and a sweet ebony black that Stiles is sure he would appreciate if he wasn’t currently fearing for his life and pressed under the thing.  
  
“Oh, hey there. You know what would be utterly awesome, wolf? Is if you decided not to kill me in a horribly inventive and animalistic way and honed in on your sensitivity that you may or may not actually possess. You should let me go and go off and kill a rabbit, or something. Or maybe a fish, because rabbits are cute and don’t–oh god, okay, shutting up now, Christ–”   
  
The wolf is snapping at his face, probably getting progressively bothered by Stiles’ insistent babbling as much as Derek usually is. Now that he looks, the wolf looks kind of annoyed, the skin between his eyes are pinched, in exasperation and something else that Stiles can’t quite place but has seen on Derek’s face multiple times–  
  
 _Oh.  
  
Oh shit._  
  
“Derek?” He asks, because yeah, now that he looks, there are so many similarities that it’s kind of pathetic how Stiles didn’t notice before. The thing has glowing red eyes even, and is staring at Stiles like he simultaneously wants to eat him and nuzzle his neck–that’s a look he’s never seen on Derek before, but maybe it’s a wolf thing.  
  
“Is that you?” He asks, because he’s a masochist, obviously, and the thought of death doesn’t really scare him anymore–well, it does, but he’s too curious to grasp his common sense to stop _talking_.  
  
The thing growls and yeah, definitely Derek.   
  
“Oh thank _god_ , dude, I thought you were dead or that you got eaten by little tiny elves with a thirst for human flesh. Well, werewolf flesh– _actually_ , does werewolf flesh taste different than human flesh? Anyway. Then I would have to plan your funeral or do something equally as stressful, like, try to explain why I had such a connection with an ex-suspect of murder to my father without mentioning the whole werewolf thing–”  
  
“Stiles.”  
  
Stiles looks up, because _holy shit a wolf can talk_ , and sees Derek, completely human, and seething, looking like he’s five seconds away from tearing into Stiles’ neck if he doesn’t shut up.  
  
“Oh,” Stiles mutters, a little sheepishly. “Welcome back to the land of the human, Derek.”  
  
Derek growls again, low and sharp in his throat, but it isn’t threatening. “What are you doing here?”  
  
Stiles thinks–quietly, of course–that’s probably the stupidest question Derek’s ever asked him, which is saying something, because Derek has this fond tendency to ask obvious questions all of the time, and still expect an answer that’s different from the obvious. It’s peculiar behavior for a supernatural being who readily acts like he knows everything, but Stiles thinks it’s some twisted way to show authority.   
  
“I thought it would be obvious,” Stiles says at length. Derek doesn’t say anything, just raises his eyebrows, a silent order to continue. “I was looking for you.”  
  
“Why?” asks Derek, like Stiles’ actions aren’t necessary, or obvious, that Stiles is seriously stupid for trekking his ass out here. Says the wolf who no one has heard from in weeks. Right.  
  
“Because it’s been three weeks since you’ve shoved me up into a rough, hard surface and that is seriously odd behavior for you.”  
  
“You miss me doing that?” Derek asks, eyebrows running into his hairline.  
  
“No,” Stiles corrects stiffly, because how exactly do you explain that you miss a territorial, Alpha werewolf who makes it known that he hates your guts and would rather have your loins hung on the flagpole outside of the town’s police department to _said_ werewolf? Not easily, apparently, even for someone as slick with words as Stiles.  
  
“You shouldn’t have come here.”  
  
Stiles takes a (un)steady breath, and meets Derek’s eyes. “Gonna kill me finally?”  
  
“It’s tempting,” Derek remarks dryly.  
  
“Hilarious, Derek. Really.”  
  
“Stiles,” Derek says,  “you need to leave.”  
  
“No,” Stiles argues, because he is _not_ disappearing simply because Derek wants him to. “You _want_ me to leave. I’m not leaving.”  
  
Derek growls, threatening and high in his throat, red eyes focused–once again–on Stiles. “Stiles.”  
  
Stiles looks, really looks at Derek, and he can see dark red matted in his hair, can see the scratches and bruises that cover his arms, littering his skin with flecks of purple, yellow, and red. He doesn’t know how he didn’t see them before, but maybe he was too caught up in the fact that Derek was okay–well, as okay as one can be when they were obviously injured (but then again, _werewolf_ ; Derek would be okay no matter what because Derek had to be okay)–and didn’t notice how bruised up the guy really was.  
  
His eyes are back to that brilliant hazel-gray color, bright and sated at the same time, somehow, like he’s calculating Stiles’ next move. Stiles can’t really explain it, but there’s something oddly comforting about his penetrating gaze. There’s always been something comforting about him, below all of the anger and emotion, beyond the threats and the doubts, there has always been something about Derek that has grounded Stiles to his very core. He’s not sure what it means, and doesn’t like to focus on it, but it’s there and right now Stiles can’t even ignore it anymore.   
  
“Derek,” Stiles says, “what happened?”   
  
Derek sighs, and then shakes his head, pausing slightly, almost like he wants to tell Stiles, but he can’t, either because it’s not safe or he just doesn’t know how. “Stiles,” he repeats.   
  
“Listen, I’m not going to go all “estranged wife” on you or anything cause we’re not even _dating_ but I deserve some answers – Derek! Stop growling at me.”  
  
But Derek isn’t looking at him, he’s looking behind his shoulder and his eyes are turning crimson-red, the type that Stiles has since associated with “seriously-pissed-off-grumpy-puppy.” He doesn’t even have time to look behind him before Derek is actually behind him, his growls getting higher in volume, and all of the commotion forces Stiles to turn around and see _what the fuck he’s growling at_.  
  
There’s another wolf. From Stiles’ research he’s gathered he can tell it’s probably a lone beta searching for a pack, or maybe just looking to cause trouble. He looks young, maybe about the same age as Stiles, and he reminds Stiles so much of Scott when he first started out that his chest aches. He wonders, idly, if the boy has anyone to help him in the way that Stiles helped Scott. He knows that it’s rare, how he boarded Scott up for months on full moon nights, and helped orchestrate lies to Scott’s mom, just in the way that Stiles protected him. Most who get bitten like Scott had, at random, don’t have anyone to lean on.  
  
It makes Stiles upset, even if he doesn’t know them, because he has this uncontrollable desire to help everyone in whatever way that he can. Even this werewolf, who is staring at Stiles like his neck might taste like fried chicken.  
  
“Uh,” Stiles says, as the beta inches forward, either too stupid to notice Derek’s obvious authority and upper hand or reckless enough not to care. His eyes are crazy, crazier than a werewolf’s are normally, and Stiles notes that he’s probably reached his breaking point. “Derek–”  
  
Derek cuts him off with a growl, sparing a glance at Stiles’ face and there’s this soft affection there, deep seated and honest, and Stiles doesn’t know how he didn’t notice it before, but he thinks that maybe it’s always been there. Kind of like Derek’s comfortable side.   
  
“Stiles,” Derek growls, but there’s nothing malicious about it. It’s possessive and protective; it makes Stiles think that Derek would do anything to ensure Stiles’ safety– and _yeah_ , he realizes, Derek would, because it doesn’t matter that Stiles is annoying or not a werewolf, or that he’s young. He’s part of Derek’s pack and as an Alpha it’s Derek’s duty to protect him. “Get the fuck behind me and _stay there_.”  
  
Stiles refrains from mentioning that Derek’s already in front of him with some difficulty.   
  
For once, though, Stiles listens to him, because Derek’s voice is fraying, from something that sounds oddly like concern–maybe for Stiles, but mostly for Derek, probably–and then there’s something stronger underneath, that Stiles can’t really identify. He doubts that Derek can either, being as the only person who is more emotionally stilted than Stiles is Derek.  
  
And then the beta lunges for Stiles’ throat and that’s when Derek loses his shit.  
  
 _Literally_.  
  
*  
  
When Stiles comes to again, he’s in Derek’s house. He knows he’s in Derek’s house because there’s charred pieces of plaster and book remnants by his _head_. His whole body aches, but he doesn’t know if that’s because he’s actually in pain or if it’s his mind playing tricks on him again–which happens more often than not, really–and his vision is blurry, but that’s okay. He can’t  see Derek, but he knows that he’s there.  
  
Derek may be a righteous dick sometimes, but he would never leave Stiles alone like this.   
  
“Derek?” Stiles coughs, and yeah, okay, wow, his voice is really hoarse, then. He tries to move, but again, utter failure, and before he can wallow in it, there’s a solid, warm pressure holding him down.  
  
He realizes too late that it’s Derek’s hand.  
  
“Don’t move,” Derek growls.  
  
“But Derek–” He protests, starting to move again, but Derek’s there–Derek’s always there, even when he wasn’t, when he was out in the woods for weeks, fucking around, or protecting them, or whatever it was the Alpha was doing, he was _there_ , a constant presence against Stiles–pushing him down with a force that should definitely only be possible with angry gods or something equally as frightening. Like Derek.  
  
“Okay,” he rasps, “not moving, definitely not moving.”  
  
Derek almost smiles. “Sorry,” he says, and actually _does_ sound sorry, like he hadn’t meant to hurt Stiles, but wasn’t sorry for being rough with him.  
  
“What happened?” Stiles dares to ask, because he’s devastatingly curious to a fault and he seriously doesn’t remember anything.  
  
“You don’t remember?” Derek asks, tilted head and all.  
  
“No.”  
  
Derek sighs, and sits down next to Stiles, and then smiles, kind of sheepishly. “You panicked when the wolf lunged for you, which I stopped, by the way, and ended up throwing yourself back against the tree. You have a mild concussion. And a bee’s nest fell on your head.”  
  
Stiles blinks. “You’re kidding, right? Oh god, please tell me you’re kidding–Derek! Why are you laughing? This isn’t _funny_.”  
  
Derek tries to visibly control himself, but he seriously fails. Just like Stiles, evidently. “The other wolf started howling hysterically and left because he could see my hands were full.”  
  
Stiles is going to _die_ of mortification. “I’m going to die of mortification,” Stiles chokes out.  
  
Derek just laughs at him. “You’re fine,” Derek says. “I probably should have taken you out there sooner. You got rid of him faster than my tactics would have.”  
  
Stiles glares at Derek’s stupidly pretty face. “You’re horrible. And I hate you.”  
  
“Sure,” Derek agrees easily, and there’s something easy about him that wasn’t there before, something that looks like fondness and maybe a little bit of gratefulness, too, like the fact that Stiles didn’t die today isn’t totally a negative. That it might just be something of a positive, too. Stiles doesn’t know how he feels about that, not exactly, because while Derek hasn’t been after Stiles’ head as much as he usually is, the thought that Derek might actually want Stiles around is more than a little surprising.   
  
“No seriously,” Stiles says, “if I had to choose between you and like, the worst person in the world, like a murderer who killed people–well, technically, you are a murderer, because yeah, werewolf, but–I would choose you. Because you’re horrible. And I hate you.”  
  
Derek looks like he wants to eat his face, or maybe like he just wants to eat Stiles in general. Stiles has yet to figure out if that’s completely a bad thing, either. “You’re a sucky liar, you know.”  
  
“I’m only sucky because you’re cheating with your stupid werewolf like powers.”   
  
“No,” Derek disagrees, “You’re just sucky in general.”  
  
And Stiles doesn’t really know what to say to that, because he’s 95.6% sure that Derek just tried to make a _joke_ ; those type of things just don’t happen, like Derek smiling or Scott actually being the smartest person in the room for once.  
  
“Did you just – _Derek_ ,” Stiles says, unable to wrap his head around the fact that Derek just made a joke. Seriously. “Did you just make a joke?”  
  
Derek raises his eyebrows, unamused. “Yes,” he says, dryly.  
  
“Are there zombies behind me waiting to eat my brains and flesh and all of my goods? Did the apocalypse happen without me being notified? Did Scott suddenly win the nobel prize? Derek, _are you ill_?” Now that Stiles looks, Derek does look sort of pale–that might be because of the whole, viciously being attacked by a werewolf thing, but apparently there wasn’t even a  fight because of Stiles.  
  
Yeah, Stiles is pretty damn amazing.  
  
“You’re such a dumbass,” Derek says, and then suddenly he’s close, so close that he can feel Derek’s breath against his cheek. Normally that would be kind of disgusting, because dog breath and all, but he’s caught up in how hard it is too breathe now.  
  
“Uh,” Stiles says intelligently. “Personal space is something that should–okay, right, shutting up–” Derek’s there, nuzzling against his neck, nose bumping into his jugular, gentle like Stiles has never really seen him be before.  
  
“Dude–” Stiles stammers. “ _Why are you nuzzling me?_ ”  
  
Derek doesn’t answer at first, just nips at Stiles’ skin a little more playfully than Stiles would expect from the man, rubbing his scent all over him in a way that’s seriously all kinds of adorable and only a little creepy. “Because I can,” Derek says, and then adds, “because I know you like it.”  
  
Stiles sputters. “Wha–how do you know that exactly?”  
  
“You came looking for me,” Derek says, infuriatingly right.   
  
“So?” Stiles says, trying to make it seem like coming out here and looking for Derek when no one else would was normal and meant nothing without there being some thoroughly gay feelings attached.   
  
“No one else did,” Derek says, “and they’re _my_ wolves.”   
  
Stiles swallows, holding back a yelp when Derek nuzzles against a particularly ticklish part of his neck. Of course, Derek hears it, or maybe he feels it, because he continues to nuzzle and nip at the spot until Stiles makes this seriously embarrassing too-much-of-a-giggle type noise to be _anything_ other than a giggle.   
  
“Why did you leave?” Stiles asks, to shift the focus from feelings to something more important, like why exactly Derek left all of the pack in the dark for three weeks.  
  
“To protect you,” Derek says, finally pulling away from his neck when he’s satisfied. “To protect all of you. That wolf challenged my authority and threatened harm against you guys. Scott and Jackson aren’t born werewolves, they’re new and they would’ve distracted me.”   
  
“And me?” Stiles asks, because he has to, even if he knows it’s going to be some variation of “you’re human and soft and kind of useless and you would’ve been more harm than good, so” because he hates himself, obviously.  
  
Derek’s quiet for a while, which really is normal behavior for the dude, but he’s quiet for so long that Stiles almost thinks he won’t answer at all. “I didn’t want him to hurt you,” Derek admits, with some difficulty.  
  
“Because I’m human and soft and weak?”   
  
Derek growls. “No, you imbecile. Because you could get seriously _hurt_ and there’s no way we would be able to fix you.” Derek hisses. “There’d be no way _I_ could fix you.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Derek glares at him, his eyes impossibly a mixture between blue and red, and if it wasn’t so terrifying Stiles might even be able to call it sort of beautiful. “ _Stiles_.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Derek doesn’t answer him with words, instead pushing even closer than he already was, pushing into Stiles’ personal space like he belongs there–maybe he does, Stiles realizes, maybe that’s what they’ve been edging toward all along, with all of the growling (mostly Derek), rambling (mostly Stiles), and stilted conversations (mostly the both of them). Where Derek wasn’t he is now, pressing against Stiles everywhere he possibly can, even with their lips.  
  
Derek’s lips are chapped and dry, but warm when they’re pressed against Stiles’ own, and he can’t help but sink into it, thinking that maybe he wants this a little more than he initially thought. It’s nice kissing someone, in that intimate way that Stiles has always been so afraid of–one of the reasons why he’s never done it, on top of the whole “no one wants to kiss you because you socially suck” thing.   
  
He breathes into it though, like he breathes into everything, all at once and too eager, but Derek doesn’t mind. It’s when Stiles finally closes his eyes that Derek pulls away to press their noses together, once, twice, and then he’s not there anymore.  
  
“Come on,” Derek murmurs, pulling away while Stiles tries to blink the haze out of his eyes. “You need to eat.”  
  
Stiles follows him, because there’s really no other choice, Derek will make him go anyway even if he doesn’t want to–werewolf strength is kind of a bitch sometimes–and yeah, okay, maybe Stiles’ life isn’t perfect. He still has a dad that works too much and his best friend may actually just be a righteous idiot, and then there’s the whole concussion thing, but Derek’s _okay_ and doesn’t completely hate him.   
  
So, all and all? Stiles life isn’t completely horrible for once, and he thinks that maybe it might actually stay that way for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Bruno Mars song of the same name, because I'm ultimately lazy.


End file.
